


The Case of the Missing Plumber

by Ophelia_j



Series: After the Hiatus [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aggie is lovely, Also bad at tagging, Angst, First Time, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_j/pseuds/Ophelia_j
Summary: A sequel to my fic, the Doctor's Doctor. After The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, Holmes' fiancee comes looking for her missing plumber.





	

A quiet Sunday in Baker Street found me reading our paper in front of the fire, the peace of the afternoon only occasionally broken by the sound of carriage wheels and hooves on cobbles, or shouts from the street below. The weather had been cold all week, and I had been in and out to patients for most of it, so I was relishing the opportunity to stay warm and indoors for the duration of the day. Despite having sold my practice, I had a number of private patients who had managed to fall ill at the same time, leaving me shuttling from one to the other during one of the coldest weeks of the year. Holmes had had a case which had required his presence at Scotland Yard for most of the week, and we had barely seen each other. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed by this turn of events. Our disagreement and reconciliation of the previous week had left a strange atmosphere in our rooms. Our brief interactions as we passed each other in the mornings or evenings had been fond, but excessively courteous and polite in a manner which was slightly disconcerting.

On this otherwise quiet day, Holmes, with unusual sociability, had accepted an invitation to attend a charity concert hosted by a former client of ours, on the promise that the soloist was a violinist of world class renown, of whom I had not heard, but whose name made Holmes’ eyes light up.

So he had agreed with enthusiasm, only to discover that the promised soloist had been replaced with another violinist, who, to quote my friend, ‘presumably only took up the violin because the penny whistle presented too ferocious a challenge’. He was now dressing for the concert with every appearance of reluctance, and only my intervention had stopped him attending in his favourite grey morning suit rather than one of the excellent dress suits he had for such occasions.

It was whilst he was in his room, making more noise than was strictly necessary for a gentleman preparing for an afternoon of musical entertainment, that our landlady appeared at the door of our rooms.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ I queried. Our fine landlady tended to sweep magisterially into our rooms, not hover doubtfully in the doorway.

‘There is a....person... downstairs, Doctor, who is insisting that she would like to consult Mr Holmes.’ Mrs Hudson could not have looked more disapproving if it were Moriarty himself, back from the grave.

‘And this person is...?’

‘A personage of the lower classes, Doctor. A serving girl, although she has assured me she has means to pay. I wouldn’t usually bring this to your attention, but there have been some other unusual visitors of late.’ She sniffed.

I held back a smile. Holmes’ last case had required extensive use, not only of the irregulars, whose attendance alone was usually enough to excite our usually imperturbable landlady, but of various boat builders and dock workers whose presence had eventually driven Mrs Hudson to complain loudly and at length to Holmes about the standing and reputation of this household in the eyes of the neighbours, and the difficulties of removing dockside mud from the carpets.

‘Ah,’ I said gravely. ‘Has she indicated what the nature of her problem might be?’

Mrs Hudson sighed. ‘A missing person, she says. Not worth Mr Holmes attention, I’m sure, but this is the third time she has been here, so I said I would speak to you, if only to be rid of her.’

‘And speak you have, Mrs Hudson. Well, Mr Holmes is off to his concert, but I have nothing on this afternoon. I can talk to her, and your duty will be satisfied.’

‘Oh, there’s no need to bother yourself Doctor, not on your day off. I shall simply tell her that Mr Holmes is far too busy with more exalted clientele’ - a muffled thump and a curse from the direction of Holmes’ room – ‘to take on such a case.’

For a moment I was tempted to allow her to do so, and return to my fire and my paper, but some impulse prevented me.

‘Not at all, Mrs Hudson; after all, we can never tell where our most interesting cases will come from.’ I laid down my paper and moved to the dining table. ‘I will hear what she has to say, and you may send her on her way if there is nothing worthy of Mr Holmes’ attention.’

Radiating resigned disapproval, our landlady turned back to the staircase. As she departed, Holmes appeared, still not appropriately apparelled for the concert, but at least in the right suit, collar open and hair awry. ‘Mrs Hudson is right, Watson, this is highly unlikely to be of any interest. Where is my blue cravat?’ I forget sometimes how excellent my friend’s hearing is.

I frowned. ‘Holmes, you can’t possibly know that, you haven’t even seen her. It’s on the mantelpiece, next to the skull. Behind the knife.’

He leapt for the mantelpiece, retrieved the offending item, and straightened his collar. ‘Mrs Hudson has not been our landlady all these years and learned nothing, Watson. She is developing solid instincts.’ He began to fix his collar. ‘Laying aside her ingrained snobbery towards those of a lower social standing, if she believes the case to be unsuitable for us, she is probably correct.’

I made a mental note to relay a slightly edited version of this compliment to our landlady at the first available opportunity. Praise from Holmes was always worthy of record.

‘Well, luckily you won’t have to sit through the interview, as you will be enjoying the excellent violin work of Signor Picarello.’

He glared at me. ‘On second thoughts, maybe I should stay. As you rightly say, Watson, who knows where the next case to challenge us will come from.’

I laughed. ‘I’m afraid you can’t get out of the concert now, old chap. Besides, you’ll only intimidate the poor girl. Now hurry, or you’ll miss the start.’

He stomped back into his room. ‘It’s not the start I’m concerned about, it’s the middle and the end. The man couldn’t play a decent cadenza....’ the rest of the statement was lost behind the closing door, and the slamming of what I hoped was a jar of pomade on the surface of his dressing table.

At that moment Mrs Hudson returned, a picture of upright disapproval, being trailed by a plain young woman whose simple clothes and shy demeanour proclaimed her station to be exactly as Mrs Hudson had indicated.

‘Miss Agatha Robson,’ Mrs Hudson announced reprovingly. Her name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I’d heard it before. _Holmes would know_ , I thought, and cast a quick glance in the direction of his room. To my surprise, his door was open, and man himself was on the threshold staring with wide eyes at our guest, who remained unaware of his presence, positioned as she was with her back to the detective. Before I could open my mouth to introduce him, he shot me a wary glance and retreated.

I looked back at our guest with renewed interest, adopting my gentlest manner, usually reserved for patients of a nervous disposition. ‘Welcome Miss Robson, do sit down.’

Mrs Hudson’s sigh was audible. I continued, ‘Would you care for any refreshment?’ This earned me a disbelieving glare from our landlady.

 ‘Oh no, thank you, sir, and I’ll stand if I may.’ The young lady’s voice was hesitant, but firm. I had the impression she was trying to modulate her voice to sound as well spoken as possible and I warmed to her.

Our landlady sighed again.

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson.’ I looked pointedly at the door. She fixed our client with another disapproving glare, as if challenging her to make away with the silver, and then left abruptly, huffing down the stairs.

I regained my seat and took up my notebook and pen. ‘Mr Holmes is attending a concert this afternoon. I am his friend and colleague Doctor Watson; you may speak to me as you would to Mr Holmes.’

She essayed a hesitant smile. ‘Oh I know who you are sir, begging your pardon, my young man ‘as read your stories to me, from the Strand like, you know. I even met Mr Holmes once, not that he’d remember, fine gentleman as he is, he came visiting on my old master, Mr Milverton, before....well...,’ She trailed off at the look on my face.

 _Milverton_. I attempted to regain my smile, and she continued hesitantly, ‘And when I said I needed some help, cook said as how all London knows there’s no better detective than Sherlock Holmes-‘

The man himself chose that moment to slam into the room, and our client broke off with a jump. He had finished his toilette, and looked every inch the perfect gentleman. His finely tailored black frock coat flowed elegantly over his silk embroidered waistcoat and cravat, and he had finally arranged his hair into its usual slicked back formal style, which as ever, gave his aquiline face its slightly severe look.

‘I must catch a cab or I’ll be late. Good evening Watson.’ He barely spared our client a glance. ‘Miss Robson.’ She gaped at him, her hard fought courage temporarily deserting her, and sank quietly into the dining chair behind her.

‘Holmes,’ I called after him as he vanished through our sitting room door. ‘ _Holmes_!’

I turned back to our client, who had gone a little pale, and attempted to reassure her. Silently I dammed my friend for making no attempt to appear any less than thoroughly intimidating.

‘I apologise my dear, Mr Holmes was running late for his concert,’ I didn’t add, _because he has been messing about with an experiment all afternoon instead of getting ready._

‘Now,’ I continued gently, ‘you were saying?’

I tried to sound encouraging, but my enthusiasm for this interview had followed Holmes out of the door. I have recorded elsewhere the events surrounding the death of Charles Augustus Milverton, and I will not repeat them here. Suffice to say that humanity at large was well rid of a man Holmes himself described as ‘the worst man in London’. That reason alone would have been enough for Holmes to refuse to take the case when Lestrade brought it to us. However, whilst we had not condoned the act, we had been present for the murder and knew exactly who had ended that odious life, and equally had no desire to see that fine lady brought to the attention of the law. I began to mentally compose excuses, even as a part of my brain wondered at Milverton inspiring such loyalty in a servant.

She threw a glance at the door Holmes had just left through, and bit her lip, hesitantly, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘I don’t have much money, sir, not enough to buy a lot of Mr Holmes’ time, I know, but my aunt died and left me a bit, and I know it’s silly, what with me having a new young man and all, but I’ve heard the stories, sir, and I thought it might not take him long to work out –‘ this all came out in a rush and she took a quick breath.

‘Work what out, Miss Robson?’ The sooner I could get her to say it, the sooner I could refuse the case and return to the fire and my paper.

‘What happened to my fiancé, sir. My old fiancé, that is. Harry says as how he was mixed up in the murder, but I can’t believe it, sir, I can’t. But ‘e did vanish you see sir, with no word,’ here her lip trembled slightly, ‘and the master was mixed up with some bad people sir, as we weren’t meant to know, but we did, and it wouldn’t be right sir, for me to just carry on and marry, without knowing what happened to him.’

I blinked at her. This was unexpected, although I was relieved her interest in finding Milverton’s murderer only extended to wanting to know it was not her ex-fiancé. I could reassure her on that point, at least. 

My relief made my encouraging smile genuine. ‘Ah, I see. Can you give me some information about your former fiancée?’

She sat up a little straighter. ‘Yes, sir. His name was John Escott, and he was a plumber by trade.’

I stared at her in disbelief. _Agatha_. I hoped the sound of pieces falling together in my brain wasn’t audible in the room. This was worse than I had feared. The poor girl was hoping to engage the services of Sherlock Holmes to find Escott the plumber, an alias of....Sherlock Holmes.

‘I – I see.’ I said. She looked from me to my notebook on the table, expectantly, and I obediently lowered my head and wrote, _Escott – plumber_ , glad of the opportunity to hide my expression. She began speaking again carefully and slowly, as though this little speech had been rehearsed.  I noted down salient points in what I hoped was an appropriate manner, although my mind was whirling.

I remembered that at the time I had rebuked Holmes for trifling with the girl’s affections, although with hindsight, I had not been especially censorious. I made a mental note to remedy that when he returned from his concert. Then I recalled his hasty exit from our rooms not five minutes earlier. Upon seeing the young lady, he had suspected the conversation would take this turn, I had no doubt. I applied my pencil to the paper with irritation, as Miss Robson continued.

 ‘About a fortnight before ‘e died, the master as was, Mr Milverton, asked Mr Stokes, the footman as was, to ‘ave some repairs sorted. I never knew exactly what, something to do struct- structur- having to do with building, and some plumbing work. The builder was a right sour piece, but the plumber, Mr Escott, well, he was....lovely.’ She blushed a little, and I thought that she looked, in that moment, quite lovely herself.  I reminded myself that this lovely man was a creation of Sherlock Holmes and once again determined to give him a piece of my mind.

She had continued, ‘He was quiet, but such nice manners, even cook said, and she could be quite short wif tradesmen, you know. Anyway, the work only took a couple o’ days, but then ‘e came back. To check the work, ‘e said, but I wasn’t kidded.’ She smiled a little proudly, and added, confidingly, ‘A lady can always tell when a gentleman has set ‘is cap.’

I gave her weak smile in return.

She took a breath, ‘It’s only right to say that I ‘ad recently split with Harry, the baker’s lad what brought the morning delivery, but he was still hopeful. And I tole John – Mr Escott – that, straight from the off, I said so.’ She looked at me as if I would challenge her honesty in this regard and I nodded hastily.

Reassured, she continued, ‘But ‘e didn’t mind, said ‘arry was a fool to let me go, and he’d be honoured if I would consider walkin’ out with him a couple of evenin’s. Such lovely words ‘e always had.’ She smiled happily as I struggled to reconcile this romantic image with my own knowledge of Holmes, even as she continued, ‘An’ it turned into nearly every evenin’, he was so keen,’ she caught herself, adding seriously, ‘but always a perfect gentleman.’

 _I should hope so_ , I thought, giving her a tight, virtue-approving smile.

‘We walked and talked for ages, every night. I’m not usually that much for talking, ‘cept as now, of course,’ and here she looked at me a little embarrassed, ‘but... you know as when your wif someone and its like you’ve known them ages, like... its comfy, you know.’ She looked to me again and I stared back in surprise. I knew exactly what she meant, but I would never have expected anyone else to describe Holmes’ company in that way. I reminded myself that the stage had lost a fine actor the day Sherlock Holmes turned to detection.

‘We talked about ‘is business, an’ my family, an about when we was kids, an about the future,’ - I began to wish I had been a fly on the wall for these conversations – ‘An about my place, you know, the master an’ the house. This went on for nearly two weeks, ‘an ‘Arry kept comin’ round, jealous as anythin’ he was, but I wouldn’t hear a word against John.’ I started slightly at my name, forgetting that Holmes had used it for his romantic alias. I realised that I had put my pencil down and was just listening to her narrative, but she seemed not to have noticed.

‘An’ then that dreadful day, sir, when the house was broken into and poor Mr Milverton, ‘e was murdered, sir, right in ‘is own study, oh, it was terrible.’ She was twisting her skirt in her lap, the memory clearly painful, and I wondered with a stab of guilt if she had been the one to find the body.

‘We know the details of the case,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to describe that night any further.’

‘Thank you sir.’ She sniffed. ‘But the thing is sir, well, Mr Escott – John – I never saw ‘im again. Not after the master died. Which is what made me think he must ‘ave fallen in with a bad lot.’

I hesitated, seeking a gentle way to phrase the question I needed to ask. ‘Forgive me, Miss Robson, but is it possible that Mr Escott disappeared simply because he did not wish to.... pursue the engagement?’

To my surprise, the idea did not seem to cause her distress. ‘I think that might be part of it, sir, yes.  She paused and then said quietly. ‘He did like me, you see, a lot, I think, but…. ‘e didn’t love me.’

I blinked. ‘You seem awfully certain.’ An obvious reason suggested itself. ‘Perhaps, he didn’t seem like the kind of person to...fall in love.’

She looked at me a little pityingly at that suggestion. ‘Oh, no, sir, that’s not right. He loved, sure as i’m sitting ‘ere, he did. But he loved someone else, someone as ‘e couldn’t ‘ave, an’ it made him so sad, sir.’ She bit her lip.

I felt something clench in my chest, and drew a steadying breath. ‘Well, maybe he lost someone, a wife, perhaps.’ I doubted even as I said it. There was no reason for Holmes to invent such a backstory for Escott, unless it was to prey on the girls’ sympathies. But looking at the kindly girl before me, I couldn’t see any necessity do to so, and I’d never known Holmes be needlessly cruel.

As if divining my thoughts, she said immediately, ‘Oh no, sir, he’d never ‘ad no-one, that was clear as day. I said ‘e was a gentleman, sir, an’ he was, but it was more than that.’ She lowered her voice and almost whispered to me, ‘I asked him to kiss me, you see, and ‘e said as.... he didn’t know how.’

The room around us felt suddenly cold as I stared at her. Escott would know, surely, that character: the worldly tradesman, he would know. _Holmes didn’t,_ my mind supplied. _Holmes didn’t know_. And his vulnerability had been laid bare in front of this young woman. I felt a weight in my chest. All my brief irritation had long vanished, replaced by a desire to have him home, where he was wanted, and yes, loved.

She continued, ‘An’ when I hugged ‘im, he held himself all stiff at first, but then he held me so tight, it was like no-one never held ‘im at all.’

 _That’s not true_ , I thought. _Don’t let that be true_. I couldn’t bear the idea of it. I thought of all the times in my life I had been held, and the memories of that affection which both hurt and sustained me in my loneliest hours. The thought that Holmes, my dearest friend, had no such memories, no such affection, was anathema to me.

I felt an irrational anger at the girl before me, who had in a matter of weeks seen as much of Holmes’ heart as I had seen in half a lifetime of friendship _. I’ve held him_ , I wanted to say, _I’m his friend_.

But I knew what she meant. I had felt it. The evening of my return from Raleigh Street I had held him, to repair our friendship, comfort his distress, and we had never spoken of it since. He had held me like that. Why had I not seen, as she had, the wasteland of physical affection that lay behind that embrace?

I remembered times he had taken my arm, held my hand, brushed my shoulder. How had I thought I was the only one taking comfort from those small signs of affection?

I realised I hadn’t spoken in some moments and the room had fallen silent. Miss Robson was watching me in confusion. ‘Are you alright, Doctor Watson, sir?’

I summoned a weak smile. ‘Forgive me, my mind wandered for a moment.’ I rallied myself. ‘May I ask then, Miss Robson, if you do not wish to continue the engagement, and you believe Mr Escott did not love you, why you want to find him?’

She nodded. ‘I ‘ope you can tell, sir, from what I’ve said, that ‘e was a good man, and kind. But even the best can be led astray by those wif money an’ a good station in life. Mr Milverton wasn’t a good man, sir, God save me for speakin’ ill of them that’s passed, but ‘e wasn’t. An’ John disappeared the very day the Master was killed. ‘Arry thinks that John ‘ad somethin’ to do with it, mebbe even a hand in the killin’, even tole the police such.’ Her voice rose slightly in outrage on the last words, her accent becoming more marked.

‘I know ‘e didn’t ‘ave nuthin’ to do wif that, I know ‘e didn’t. But I am worried for ‘im. The master knew all kinds of shady types, an’ if John was mixed up wif them, he might be in any kind of trouble, ‘e might even be-‘ She broke off, gulped a breath and continued.

‘It’s as I said, sir, ‘e was real worldly in some ways and real innocent in others, and I jus’ want to know as ‘e’s okay, and safe, like. An’ like I say, I’ve got a bit now, from me aunt, I thought mebbe if ‘e needed a bit, jus’ to get ‘im out of trouble like. He was a gentleman, you see, sir, an’ I don’ think ‘e would ‘ave left, not without good reason, even if as how ‘e didn’t want to marry, an I thought as how mebbe ‘e was forced to- to-.’ The rush of words began to trail off under my gaze.

‘So if Mr Holmes could just find ‘im, like, an’ I could mebbe see ‘im, or, or even write, if ‘arry could help me. Just to end the engagement, official-like, and see that ‘e’s ‘appy....’

I spoke around a lump in my throat. ‘I will put the case to Mr Holmes. Is there an address we can write to you?’

She collected herself and fished in her purse, retrieving a slightly crumpled piece of paper and handing it to me with care. ‘This is me new position. It’s a lovely house, an’ the mistress is ever so nice, much better than the master as was.’ She smiled at me, and I felt absurdly glad that Milverton’s death, for all that it had benefitted the rich and powerful across London, had also benefitted this kindly young woman.

Her smile faded slightly and she said hesitantly. ‘As I said sir, I don’ know what Mr Holmes’ fees are. I haven’t got-‘

I raised a hand to stop her. ‘Mr Holmes gives me a great deal of discretion in these matters. In certain circumstances we have waived a fee altogether if there is little effort required to reach a conclusion. I feel sure that this will be one of those cases.’

She flushed, embarrassed, and said smartly, ‘There’s no need for charity, sir. I can pay.’

‘I know,’ I said patiently, ‘but there may be no need for you to do so. Mr Holmes was consulted by the police on the matter of Mr Milverton’s death, and it may be that enquiries he has already made will allow us to find your answer.’

‘Oh.’ She paused, then; ‘Thank you sir, for listening, and for being so kind.’ She got to her feet.

I smiled and rose, opening the door for her. ‘Mrs Hudson will show you out.’ Our landlady had appeared as if by magic at the foot of the stairs. ‘And we will contact you shortly.’

She smiled shyly, muttered another thank you, and slipped after Mrs Hudson with every sign of profound relief.

I returned to my place in front of the fire, but I was no longer interested in my paper. The conversation replayed in my mind.

I had long schooled myself to keep the thought that my affection for Holmes could be more than profound friendship far from my mind. Holmes had made it clear, in many ways, that he had no interest in the softer emotions, and that a physical relationship with the fairer sex would be unwanted and unthinkable. I had always assumed that the same applied to relationships with his own sex. When I had wondered about it at all, I had supposed, given his stated feelings towards the fairer sex, that his affections would run towards his own gender. But since he appeared to have no feelings in that regard towards either sex, the thought had been irrelevant.

For my own part, I had never allowed myself to even consider a physical relationship with Holmes. From the moment I realised I found him attractive, I had stamped on any manifestation of that thought occurring again. Bad enough that I should be unable to conceal my great affection for him. Worse that he should read from me such thoughts as would have us both arrested and jailed. His friendship was far too valuable to risk with such indulgence.

Then had come his death, and Mary’s, and any thought of regulating my own mind to the proprieties of friendship had vanished. What did it matter then? More than once I had imagined, in the silence of my room, his voice, his hands, his mouth on mine.

But he is, after all, Sherlock Holmes. I could not believe that I truly kept anything hidden from him. I had assumed that, in the turmoil of emotions that followed his return, somehow, at some time, I had betrayed myself, and that Holmes was aware of my feelings, and my thoughts, and had - I hoped – forgiven and accepted them, and chosen not to act upon them, as they were not reciprocated.

Now I wondered. She had sounded so sure, so certain that he loved, that he wanted to be loved. Could Holmes truly be desirous of physical affection? Was it perhaps not indifference that kept him aloof, but...fear? _he loved someone else, someone as ‘e couldn’t ‘ave, an’ it made him so sad._ Surely not, surely....Holmes was the bravest man I’d ever known. Surely if he wished for physical affection, he would simply find it? And he hadn’t, not in our time together, I was almost sure. The idea of him finding it outside Baker Street was enough to make me nauseous. Perhaps I should find a way to make it clear to him that.....whilst not expected......even hoped for......would be greatly welcome.....long desired....

 I dropped my head into my hands. How could I even begin that conversation?

As a raised my eyes again I thought of James, and heard his voice, sad in the firelight. ‘ _Talk to him, John. I think you may find he is not as opposed to the softer emotions as he would have you believe. And even if he is, I think you will find yourself the exception.’_

I had disbelieved him then. Would not allow myself to believe him. And now, I saw that if Holmes was afraid, then we were both afraid. Afraid to take a chance that James and Agatha had both taken without a thought.

I had no idea how long I sat there, but eventually the front door slammed, and I jumped. I heard Holmes’ tread on the stairs and I started guiltily out of my seat so that I was standing when he entered. He didn’t look at me, but swept through to his room to deposit his gloves and scarf, calling to me as he went.

‘Well Watson, it was as I feared. An abysmally average performance delivered to rapturous applause. I was invited backstage afterwards, but I made my excuses and left. Really, it was too much.’ He reappeared, cravat and cufflinks also removed, pulling on his smoking jacket. ‘I’m sure compliments would have been expected and even my acting skills were not equal to the task.’

He sank down onto the settee. I regained my chair, and he looked at me evenly and sighed.

‘Alright Watson, let’s have it.’ He waved a hand. ‘Hearing you accuse me of trifling with a young lady’s affections cannot possibly be worse than the scrapings of Signor Picarello.’

He had come back too soon, and in such a mood. I had not planned what to say, and my vague sentences withered before his clear gaze.

‘Well,’ I cleared my throat. ‘You will be relieved to hear that, as expected, you were supplanted in her affections very quickly by a rival.’

He flashed a quick smile at that, and there was, I fancied, some genuine relief in it. Holmes is not, as I have stated, a cruel man. ‘I am gratified to hear it. Young Harry Anstruther, I hope, and not that dreadful Stokes?’

‘Harry was mentioned at frequent intervals, so, yes, I believe him to be the fortunate gentleman.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Good. I did advise Miss Robson away from Mr Stokes, although I could hardly hope she would heed my advice. Young women are exceptionally single minded in such matters. Anstruther is remarkably pig-headed and has an eye for the ladies, but I believe those to be the worst of his faults. Nothing Miss Robson won’t be able to manage.’

‘Holmes.’ I said, ‘You left the poor girl without so much as a note.’

‘Watson.’ He imitated my tone. ‘If memory serves, we were preoccupied at the time with housebreaking, destruction of evidence, and obstructing the police in catching a murderess. And as you rightly observed, my rival was ready to cut me out the moment I left.’

‘Even so, Holmes,’ I began.

He leapt from his chair and began pacing the room. ‘It was _necessary_ , Watson. I needed information. How else could I have got it, in the time required?’ He turned on me. ‘And I don’t recall you being quite so squeamish at the time.’

I frowned. ‘I don’t recall you mentioning it to me beforehand; if you had I certainly would have objected.’

He glared at me then, looking almost betrayed, and a memory of another recent argument surfaced between us. He dropped his gaze and his shoulders slumped.

‘Well,’ he said quietly, waving a hand. ‘It is done. We should not-‘

He stopped, returned to the settee, and sat down again. He looked as if all life had been suddenly drained from him. I remembered his black moods in the wake of the Milverton case, and couldn’t find it in my heart to remonstrate with him any further.

I sighed. ‘As I am sure you have already deduced-‘

‘She wishes us to track down Mr Escott.’ He leaned back on the settee, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to his forehead. ‘I do not believe my deductive skills will be equal to the task.’

‘This isn’t funny, Holmes.’

His eyes snapped open. ‘Do I look amused, Watson?’ He gestured sharply. ‘How can I possibly find a man who doesn’t exist? Why did you even agree to take the case?’

‘To give the poor girl some closure, Holmes,’ I said evenly.  I bit back, _as you should have done_.

He huffed a resigned sigh. ‘Very well.’ He looked at me. ‘You obviously have some notion how we should proceed.’

‘The girl herself suggested that she would be happy with a letter from Mr Escott, once we found him, assuring her of his wellbeing and happiness, and officially releasing her from their engagement to allow her to marry Mr Anstruther with a clear conscience.’

Holmes looked surprised. ‘And you would be content with such a course?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Much as I hate to compound a lie, the only alternative is to tell her the truth.’ It was my turn to sigh. ‘And I believe she would find that distressing. She is a kind girl, motivated by concern for a man she is fond of, who she believes to be honest. I should not like her to think her trust was misplaced.’

Holmes looked at me evenly, then glanced away. He said quietly, ‘Indeed.’

We sat in silence for moment, then he said, ‘So our course is decided.’

Staring at the fire, I nodded.

‘Then what is it that still bothers you, Watson? We are agreed. The situation cannot be helped.’

He had risen to retrieve his pipe and tobacco pouch from the mantelpiece.

I rallied. ‘Nothing. You are quite right.’

He paused in the act of packing his pipe and looked at me. ‘Watson, should you ever decide to turn your back on the medical profession, promise me you will never take up professional poker. Your losses would be phenomenal.’

I shot him a glance, stung at what could have been a reference to my losses at the card table early in our friendship, but there was no censure in the comment, and Holmes accusing me of being an open book was hardly new. I exhaled slowly, trying to find the right words. He regained his seat, still holding the unlit pipe and watching me.  We sat silence for a few more moments, before he broke it abruptly.

‘What did she say?’

I looked up. ‘What?’

‘Miss Robson. She obviously said something that has disturbed you.’ His lips thinned. ‘I’m not sure how many times I need to explain that the deception was _necessary_ -‘

I cut him off. ‘It isn’t that.’

‘Then what?’ He was twisting the pipe in his hands, an anxious gesture that reminded me oddly of her.

I sat forward, bringing myself closer to him, and lowering my voice. ‘Holmes. She said that –‘ I coughed, ‘that is….she was very concerned for you – for Escott. She was quite convinced that he – that you – loved someone that you couldn’t have.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘That you were, somehow…. deprived of physical affection.’

His face tightened. ‘I can hardly be held responsible for the romantic fancies of women.’

‘She didn’t strike me as the type for romantic fancies.’ I said evenly. ‘I can’t think of any reason you, as Escott, would have deliberately given her that impression.’

‘Watson, try to imagine the tonnage of things you cannot conceive of,’ he snapped. It was a deliberate barb and a poor one. I ignored it.

He continued. ‘It was a ruse. To gain the young lady’s sympathy.’

‘Holmes,’ I said carefully, ‘I don’t think you should take up poker either.’

He gave a bark of bitter laughter. ‘I flatter myself Watson, that I am not usually transparent.’

‘Not to anyone else, perhaps. Was she right?’

He stood, and moved jerkily away. ‘What does it matter? The case is over.’

‘Holmes, it matters to me. I am your friend. If something is making you unhappy, and I can help-‘

He rounded on me then, hoarse and angry. ‘And what exactly is it you think you can do? What are you trying to help me with?’  This almost shouted, ‘I will not be _pitied_.’

‘Oh good God man, do you have to be so bloody-‘ I cut myself off. ‘Holmes, this isn’t pity, if you see nothing else, see that.’

He was still holding himself like an animal at bay. ‘What is it then? Enlighten me.’

‘It’s concern, it’s affection, it’s –,’ I couldn’t say the word. What if they were wrong? I crossed the room, intending to take him in my arms, to show him my meaning.

He read my intent and recoiled.

I froze.

He said, into the horrified silence. ‘I can’t, Watson, don’t ask me to…’

He turned towards his room. As he reached the door, I felt hope drain away, and I said to his retreating back, ‘It’s love.’

He stopped. I continued, ‘I’m sorry I’ve never said it before. I’m sorry if it offends you now. I couldn’t live with you not knowing any longer.  I want you to know that anything you need that is in my power to give, is yours. Without hesitation.’

He neither moved nor spoke. I couldn’t see his face.

I hurried blindly on. ‘And if you wish, we need never speak of this again.’

Without turning, he walked into his room, and closed the door.

I stood frozen, listening to the sound of my breathing. Sounds drifted in from the street outside, people living their normal lives, whilst mine fell apart around me. I fought the impulse to flee Baker Street. Instead, I crossed the room before my courage could fail me and knocked on the closed door. 

‘Holmes. Holmes, please.’ I tried the handle. The door was unlocked and I pushed it open. 

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. Before I could think about it, I crossed the floor and knelt in front of him. 

‘I’m sorry.’ I said quickly. ‘I should not have spoken. We can forget this conversation ever took place.’

He didn’t move or reply, and I felt cold fear grip my heart. 

‘Please, Holmes. Forget everything I said. I have no wish to lose your friendship over this.’

There was still no response, and I said, an edge of desperation in my tone, ‘Forgive me.’ 

He spoke then, still without looking up. ‘No.’ I froze in the action of reaching for his arm. Quickly he reached out, caught my outstretched hand in both of his, and held it tightly. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

I breathed out in relief. ‘Then let us forget the conversation.’ I moved to stand. 

‘No.’ As I moved, he tightened his grip on my hand. My movement away was curtailed and I ended up sitting awkwardly next to him on the edge of the bed. 

Still without taking his eyes from our joined hands, he said, voice slightly hoarse. ‘Did you mean it, Watson? Anything in your power to give. Anything?’

‘Yes.’ My voice was steady and firm. ‘Anything, Holmes, you need only ask.’ 

‘I cannot.’ Where my left shoulder met his right, I could feel him trembling. As James had done for me all those years before I slipped my free hand around his shoulders. He said,’ I have never-‘ his voice broke. I pulled him closer, at a loss for the right words. His voice was almost inaudible as he said, ‘I am afraid.’

I bent my head to rest against his. ‘As am I.’ He murmured something into the intimate space between us that it took me a moment to decipher. ‘Three continents Watson?’

I huffed a laugh. ‘Hardly.’ Having him so near was intoxicating. We had stood close before, in hiding, on cases, but never with this intensity, this liberty to touch. I ran my free hand soothingly over his upper arm. I said again, ‘Anything you want, Holmes. Or don’t want. It’s all up to you.’

He said, that quietly distressed tone back, ‘This cannot come between us. I cannot lose you.’ 

I started. ‘You will not lose me.’ I drew back slightly. I said, ‘Look at me.’ He kept his head turned away. I said again, gently, ‘Holmes. Look at me.’ He raised his face to mine. He looked more lost and uncertain than I had ever seen him. I held his gaze, ‘You could never lose me. Please believe that.’

He stared at me intensely, eyes roving over my face. Then he said, ‘You were - intimate - with Dr Paulson.’ The change of topic threw me for a moment, and then I said. ‘Yes. Many years ago in Afghanistan.’

He nodded, his deduction confirmed. Then hesitantly, ‘But not – the night you spent there recently?’

I raised an eyebrow at him, trying to smile, to lighten the atmosphere. ‘You didn’t deduce it?’ 

He frowned slightly. ‘The circumstances were not conducive to accurate deduction. I was emotionally compromised.’ Some of his uncertainty fell away as he warmed to his theme. ‘It’s as I’ve always believed. Emotions are anathema to accurate reasoning.’ 

I looked at him fondly. This was my Holmes. I was almost overcome in that moment with the desire to kiss him. To claim him as my love, as he had always been my friend. 

He read my face and said softly, ‘Yes.’ 

My heart was hammering and the room felt far too hot as I closed the distance between us. 

There was a loud knocking on the front door. We froze, staring at each other, inches apart. Moments later our landlady’s voice came from downstairs.

‘Doctor! Doctor Watson!’ I hurried across the floor as her footsteps sounded on the stairs, and greeted her at the door to our sitting room. 

She reached the top, flushed and panting. ‘There’s a young man, Doctor, says it’s urgent.’

I looked behind her, where a young man in apprentice garb had appeared at the foot of the stairs, anxiety in every aspect. ‘Freddy!’ I said in surprise, even as I cursed his timing, ‘What on earth is the matter?’ 

Freddy Palmer was the oldest of four children in a family that lived near the docks. His mother had been a patient of mine until the previous year, when their father had been laid off from his work, and the family had fallen on hard times. Freddy’s work brought him to Baker Street occasionally, and he would run to speak to me whenever he had the chance, updating me on his family and their lives. He snatched his cap off his head and began, his word tumbling over themselves. ‘It’s mam, Doctor, I’m sorry to come, but she’s so sick, I didn’t know what else to do. She ‘ad the babby Doctor, but she’s not been right since, and now-‘ The strong, quiet lad looked on the verge of tears. 

I closed my eyes for a second, as duty warred with desire, then; ‘Wait there.’ I said. I took the stairs to my room two at time, and grabbed my bag, pausing only to throw some more items into it. As I reached the hallway again, Mrs Hudson handed me my coat, throwing my scarf around my neck even as I kept moving past her, Freddy in tow. To my surprise, Holmes was in the hallway. He said, ‘I took the liberty of hailing a cab.’ Then quietly, for my ears only, ‘Hurry home.’ My heart leapt in my chest. 

The situation that greeted me at the Palmer house was one every physician dreads. I had simply been summoned too late. All I could do was make the poor woman more comfortable in her final hours. I stayed as evening wore on and night became morning. I hope that I eased her passing, but there was nothing I could do for the distress of her family as the reality of the situation became clear. 

I could hear a clock chiming three as I left the house and started to walk. There were no cabs around at this hour, but it didn’t matter. I wanted to try and walk away the night. I squinted into the icy wind. The cold air stinging my eyes and cheeks was somehow a relief. I shoved my free hand in the pocket of my overcoat, holding my medical bag closer with the other. It felt heavier than it had earlier in the day, even though I knew there was less in it. I had rarely felt so utterly useless. Logically, I knew there was no fault of mine. There are limits to medicine and those had been reached long before my arrival. But logic is very little help in the face of grief. As I trudged towards Baker Street, tiny flecks of ice gathered in crevices on the pavement, and my leg began to ache.

As I draw near home, I noticed a light still glowing behind the curtains in our sitting room. Holmes must have left it on when he retired, I thought. So I was gladdened to see the man himself in his dressing gown, curled up on his chair in front of the still smouldering embers of the fire. He was wrapped in a blanket which slipped to the ground as he stood. He looked me over briefly and moved to the sideboard, pouring a drink.

‘Holmes,’ I kept my voice down, certain that there was at least one person in the house abed at this hour. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ I had left my coat and scarf in the hall, so the warmth of the banked fire was very welcome. I sank into my chair with relief.

I expected him to make a dismissive comment about keeping irregular hours, but instead he held out the brandy and simply said, ‘I was waiting for you.’ The comment did more to warm me than the fire and the brandy combined. I smiled up at his angular face in the firelight and said ‘Thank you.’

He nodded, retrieved the blanket from the floor, draped it around my shoulders, and curled back into his chair. ‘I am sorry about your patient.’

I swallowed. ‘It was a bloody waste. I should have been called in days ago.’

‘But the child will live?’

‘I hope so. It may be touch and go for a while. She is so small.’ We sat in silence for a while before I dropped my glass down on the side table. ‘Puerperal fever. My God, have we learned nothing in the last hundred years?’ I could feel myself getting angry. ‘The evidence is clear. Disinfection, cleanliness, the simplest things, and still this happens. I give explicit instructions-‘ I broke off, running a hand through my hair. This was pointless. I drained my drink.

‘It’s late.’ I said. ‘We should both get some sleep.’ I stood too quickly and swayed slightly. 

Holmes had stood as I did and touched a steadying hand to my arm. ‘You should certainly sleep. You’re exhausted.’

I frowned. ‘I’m fine.’ The weight of his hand on my arm. I felt a smaller hand in its place. Will she be alright, Doctor? A small trusting face gazing into mine. God, how they had cried, her children. The look of betrayal on the littlest girl’s face. There was nothing I could have done, I had wanted to say. Nothing. I took a breath. ‘I’m fine.’ I repeated quietly.  
He was standing only a step away in the firelight, his hand still resting on my arm. I was almost overcome with the pathetic desire to step into his arms and be held. I made to move away, but as if divining my thoughts he took a step forward, and put his arms awkwardly around my shoulders. For a moment I froze in surprised pleasure, then quickly wound my arms around him before he could change his mind and move away. In my haste, my hand slipped beneath his dressing gown, leaving only his nightshirt between my hand and his bare skin. He hissed and I made to move away, worried lest this was an intimacy too far, too soon, but his wiry strength held me in place and his voice murmured in my ear, ‘Watson, your hands are freezing.’ I huffed a relieved laugh against his neck. ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied, in a tone that hardly conveyed repentance. He murmured back in a reproachful voice, ‘And you a doctor.’

I sighed against him. ‘Not a very useful one tonight.’

His arms tightened reflexively around me. ‘Rubbish. I won’t hear such nonsense.’ 

I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling tiredness creep over me. 

‘You need to sleep,’ he said quietly. I murmured noncommittal agreement, but made no move. Resting in his arms, in front of our fire, was far too seductive, and I could happily have slept standing in place. He loosened his grip and gently moved me towards the door. ‘Go to bed.’ 

I grumbled, but acquiesced, shuffling slowly away. As I reached the door, I looked back. He had turned out the lamp, and only light from the street lamps through the cracks in the curtains lit his slim form. Without even a conscious thought, I moved to him, drew his face to mine, and kissed him. 

His cheeks were warm under my hands. His lips were dry, and soft. As I pressed my lips to his, he gave a quiet, aborted cry. My tiredness retreated in a flare of adrenaline and desire as his initial shock faded and he fumbled to draw me closer. I wound my arms around him and pulled our bodies together, kissing along his jawline, as his hands made vague patterns on my back. He was breathing hard, and held himself stiffly in my arms. I drew back, still holding him, struggling to see his face in the dim light. 

‘Are you alright?’ I whispered, ‘is this alright?’ 

He said, unsteadily, ‘Don’t stop.’

I surged forward and kissed him again, firmer this time. He tasted of brandy and tobacco, with a scent that was intoxicating and uniquely Holmes. I slid a hand beneath his dressing gown, desperate to be closer still to the warmth of his skin. He began to tremble in my arms. I stopped, suddenly anxious. 

He caught my intent and tightened his grip, holding me against him before I could draw away again. 

His voice was hoarse as he said, ‘I’m sorry. I cannot…regulate my responses.’ 

I rested my cheek against his, my lips close to his ear as I murmured, ‘Then don’t try.’

His breath was coming in bursts as he whispered, ‘The loss of control….’ I slid my hand down to his rear, and pulled him against me. The action brought our groins in contact. I bit back a moan as I whispered, ‘…is the point.’ At the contact, he gasped, and jerked as if struck. Against all my instincts, I pulled away, uncertain. 

‘Sherlock,’ I whispered, ‘If this is too soon-‘

He said, making an obvious effort to keep his voice steady, ‘Your room will be cold.’

I stared. ‘What?’

‘You are still cold. Your room will be cold.’ He brought my hand to his face. My fingers were cold against the warmth of his cheek. ‘You should stay in mine.’

My heart was racing. God, I wanted to, so very much. I moved my fingers against his cheek. ‘I should go to my room.’

His face tightened. Hurt flashed behind his eyes, but was quickly shuttered. 

‘To get my nightshirt,’ I clarified quickly. ‘I can’t sleep in these clothes.’ 

‘Oh.’ He breathed in relief. ‘Yes. Yes, you should- yes.’ 

‘Right.’ I said. It was difficult to tear myself away. Some part of me feared that if I left him for any length of time, this open, vulnerable man would disappear and the intimidating, acerbic consulting detective would be in his place. ‘I’ll go now.’ I stepped back and moved away. His hand made an abortive gesture as if he would reach for me again. 

He said quietly, ‘Be quick, John.’

I hurried upstairs, divested myself of my clothes, and threw on my nightshirt. As an afterthought I rumpled my bed. I would have to be back in my room before anyone else woke, but even so leaving it untouched seemed like too great a risk. I turned to head back downstairs and suddenly caught myself. What was I doing? I was risking my entire relationship with Holmes and for what? I leaned against the door frame, my breath coming in bursts, suddenly afraid. A small noise from downstairs caught my attention. Holmes. I thought of him, in his room, waiting. Alone. As it seemed he had been his entire life. I went to him. 

He was standing near his bed, and had taken off his dressing gown. He turned as I entered, hands falling from his nightshirt. I closed the door behind me, and moved to him, catching his hands in mine and kissing the long fingers lightly. I said ‘Thank you.’ He looked at me, eyes hooded, ‘For what?’

‘For trusting me.’ 

He smiled then, some of his uncertainly falling away. He bent to kiss me, almost shyly, murmuring, ‘Always.’ I felt I thrill run through me as I reached for the ties of his nightshirt, loosening them one at a time, and revealing the pale skin beneath. I ran my hands possessively across his chest as I pushed his nightshirt away entirely. I wanted to see all of him. He shivered, and I murmured, ‘Cold hands?’ 

He whispered, ‘No.’ 

I moved him back towards the bed. As we sank onto it, he drew my nightshirt away with shaking hands. His hands roamed my back, arms and sides, uncertain, exploring. As our naked bodies came together on the bed we were both trembling. I kissed him with a fervour which was returned in kind, catching his lip between mine as my hand roamed to his nipple, rubbing and pinching gently. His gasp was lost in my mouth as my hand roamed lower, glorying in his smooth skin. 

On his slim form the space between his hips was almost concave. He held his breath as I caressed the area, moving closer to his stiffening member but not touching. I bent my head to his nipple, kissing and sucking, and he released a long, shuddering breath that was almost a moan. 

My hand reached its destination and I stroked along his length. He gave a cry and arched against me. His free hand grasped mine, halting my movement. ‘The sensation,’ he gasped. ‘Oh god, John, it’s too much.’ I rested my hand on his hardening length, and used my free hand to push his hair away where it had fallen across his forehead, lightly kissing his neck. It my wildest dreams I had not imagined him this responsive; it was almost unbearably arousing. 

‘Shh, love,’ I murmured. ‘Trust me.’ Slowly, he took his hand from mine and fisted the bedsheet as I carefully, gently, stroked him again. He grew achingly hard, and his breath came in gasps, before he rasped ‘John, I can’t, oh god, I can’t let go.’ 

‘You can. Trust me.’ I kissed him again. He thrust into my hand, over and over, his breath coming in shallow bursts. I breathed against his cheek, ‘That’s it love. Come for me.’ I squeezed his length, running my thumb over the leaking head. His body convulsed beneath me as he came with a cry that was almost a sob, tears standing in his eyes. He moaned my name incoherently as I stroked him through it, pressing kisses to his bare skin. I had never seen anything so erotic in all my life. I was painfully hard, but it seemed almost irrelevant after seeing the man I loved; my aloof, reserved, sometimes distant friend, so utterly undone. I loved him so entirely in that moment I thought my heart would burst. 

He was staring at me and his face was almost blank. In sudden alarm, I whispered, ‘Sherlock. Are you alright?’

He said, wonderingly, ‘There was no thought, none. For that moment, there was just….sensation. It was….incredible.’ I smiled with relief, and ran tip of my finger across a line of moisture on his cheek, kissing the path it had taken. As his breath evened, I leaned to the floor to fetch my handkerchief and clean his chest, and as I moved back we both became aware of my hardness against his leg. I made to draw back and he caught me, holding me in place. He said, ‘May I?’

I caught my breath. ‘God, yes. Please.’ 

He took me in hand and I bit back a gasp. He stroked me as I had done him and I moaned aloud. His gaze sharpened as he adjusted speed and pressure, watching me intently the whole time, reading every tiny reaction. Feeling my fantasy made flesh was too much and I was on the edge in moments, mumbling incoherent words, ‘Sherlock, oh, god, so good, please, yes -.’ I seized his arm in warning. ‘I’m so close.’ 

He gripped me harder and breathed, ‘I want to watch you,’ as he leaned over and sucked gently at my nipple. I came with a shout that he quickly smothered, covering my mouth with his. He kissed me, gently, fervently, with utter thoroughness as I came down, exploring my mouth, my lips, my face, even as I gasped for breath. 

We cleaned each other and lay quietly in the darkness. There didn’t seem to be any adequate words. His arms were around me. I rested my head on his shoulder and allowed myself to simply enjoy the sensation of having him so close that I could feel his heartbeat, and hear his breath. 

After a while he murmured, ‘I have been a fool.’ He was lying on his back, and I had tucked myself along his side, partly to avoid falling out of the narrow bed, but mostly to enjoy the feel of his body against mine as I drifted. 

I had been almost unconscious, but his voice brought me some way to alertness. ‘I find that unlikely.’ I mumbled, enjoying the warmth of him against my chest. 

‘A fool, and a coward.’ Even through my sleep addled haze I could hear the unhappiness in his tone. ‘We have had this,’ and here he tightened his arm around my shoulder, ‘years ago.’ 

I opened my eyes, more awake now. He was staring at the ceiling and his face was shadowed in the darkness, but his eyes glittered in the dim light from the street lamps that broke through the curtain. 

‘No,’ I said, not without a little sadness, ‘we couldn’t.’ His head turned to me. I reached up a hand and traced the outline of his angular face with my fingertips. 

He said, uncertainly, ‘You...would not have wanted...’

‘Of course I would have wanted.’ I said with certainty. ‘But I didn’t know. I didn’t know that this was even possible. How could I have hoped for this?’ I drew his face to mine and kissed him lightly, still glorying in the freedom to do so. He made to speak and I stopped him, brushing my fingers against his lips. ‘If there is blame to be laid then it must be mine also. It took two virtual strangers to show me what was in front of me all the time.’ My voice began to shake slightly as I continued, ‘Your genius lies in deduction, in logic. I am supposed to be the one who understands the softer emotions, but without Miss Robson I would never have spoken, and without James I would never have realised-‘ I stopped, suddenly, absurdly – given our intimate situation – feeling exposed. 

‘Realised what?’

I couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘That my love for you was more than friendship.’ 

He didn’t reply, and didn’t move. I began to fear that I had overstepped some invisible boundary. After what felt like an eternity of silence he whispered, ‘That’s the second time you’ve said -.’ He stopped.

‘Said?’ I prompted.

‘That you,’ he stumbled over the words, and tried again, ‘that you...love me.’ This last was so quiet that even in the silent room I barely caught it. 

I said simply, ‘Can you doubt it?’ 

His breathing became laboured and I looked at him in concern. He had turned his face away from me. After a moment the dim light revealed glistening tracks on his cheek. I reached up and traced one wonderingly with my thumb. ‘Sherlock,’ I said, moved almost beyond endurance. 

He kept his face away from me as he said, ‘Forgive me.’ 

I said, ‘There is nothing-‘

He said, ‘I cannot say it.’ 

I reached up, determined, and drew his face back to mine. I rested my forehead against his as I whispered, ‘You never have to. I have you here. That is more than I ever dreamed. You need never say it. Simply never leave.’ 

He drew me against him and held me so tightly it was almost painful. He said hoarsely, ‘I will not.’

 

There was a strange surrealism to our lives for a while. I felt sometimes as if I was living two entirely different, but parallel, lives with two entirely different, but identical, men. In the daytime, all proceeded entirely as usual. I attended my patients, and my club, and followed Holmes on most of his cases. I disciplined myself to look at Holmes no more than usual, to address him no differently than I would have before. I drew a firm line in my head between our days and nights. To do otherwise would court disaster. 

Whilst I had to extend some mental effort for this, Holmes appeared to be entirely unaffected. His attitude to me during our daily lives was as it had ever been. He was fond, insulting, and tolerant by turns. In our nights together he was open, vulnerable, and increasingly affectionate and demonstrative. 

During the first challenging case after our relationship had changed, it became apparent that Holmes barely planned to sleep, let alone engage in any intimacy. I grew accustomed to retiring to my own bedroom again, aware that any interruptions from Holmes in the night would be to drag me out of my bed and across London, rather than to his room. Returning our relationship to what it had been should not have been painful, but my desire to touch him was like an ache I couldn’t treat. The case ended in triumph, and we took a meal at Simpson’s to celebrate. On our return to Baker Street, he was in upbeat mood, but I was tired and a little despondent, and went to my room, prepared to retire immediately. 

Returning to our living room, I retrieved my novel, said, ‘Goodnight, old man’, and gathered my dressing gown around me, heading back to my room. 

‘You are retiring?’ I turned back. He was looking at me in surprise from his position by the mantel. 

I stared back in nightshirt, slippers, and dressing gown, at nearly midnight. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes. ‘Yes.’ I said patiently. 

‘To your room,’ he said, continuing this vein of unnecessary deductions. I said, ‘Yes.’

‘Ah.’ Was all he said. Then, awkwardly; ‘You would not like to retire ….with me?’ He flashed me a quick half smile. 

I said carefully, ‘Then, we are still –‘ 

I fumbled for the words. He had not so much as looked at me with anything other than friendship in more than a week. Had barely noticed me at all, other than as colleague on the case. ‘It’s just...we have not, in the last week or more, and I thought-‘ I broke off, fearful lest I betray my anxiety on the subject. 

His eyes widened. ‘A week? You exaggerate, Watson.’ 

I sighed. ‘Eight days, Holmes, to be precise.’

He stared at me. ‘Eight days?’ I could see him calculating in his head. He reached his conclusion and looked at me in barely concealed panic. ‘Watson, I – ,’ he crossed the room to me, moved as if to embrace me then stopped, uncertain, almost stammering, ‘The case, you see, the case. I didn’t mean to – God, I have neglected you entirely.’ He was gazing anxiously at my face, trying to deduce my response. ‘John. Please forgive me.’

His reaction was a source of such profound relief I almost laughed. ‘Then you still wish to-‘

‘Yes.’ His response was immediate. ‘Yes, I do, I still wish to, very much. I was so preoccupied, I didn’t think -’ 

I stopped his rambling by the simple expedient of taking his face in my hands. ‘Holmes, it’s fine. Really. I know now. When you’re on a case, you’re busy. All the time. I won’t take it as a slight.’ 

He breathed out in relief. ‘Oh thank God. If I lost this now, after-‘ 

I kissed him. 

A month later, I was walking home to Baker Street on a relatively quiet Wednesday afternoon. My morning’s patient had been well on the road to recovery; lunch at my club had been genial in the extreme, and my mood was buoyant. I knew Holmes had been out all morning, but he had stated his intention to stay at Baker Street this afternoon, and I hoped I would find him at home. 

After an uncertain start, the newly intimate aspect of our relationship had not, as I feared, damaged our friendship. In fact it seemed to me to be richer for it, knowing as I did a side to Holmes that had been closed to me before. Holmes himself still sometimes struggled with the vulnerability of our night-time activities for his own part, but he applied himself to my pleasure with the intense single minded dedication he brought to his work. I frequently felt like the focus of one of Holmes’ experiments, but the results were far from unpleasant. If I was to be Holmes’ subject for his explorations in intimacy for the rest of my life, then I would happily resign myself to my fate. 

The man himself had increased this impression a few nights ago when he had exclaimed afterwards; ‘This is excellent data, Watson.’ I had stared at him, taken aback, and he had smiled at me with the zeal of the newly converted. ‘Prior to this,’ he had explained, ‘there were certain areas of human motivation and action in which I could only theorise – now I have empirical data. It’s fascinating.’ I had looked at his entirely serious expression, bit my lip, and replied solemnly, ‘I’m glad I could be of assistance.’ The memory made me smile. As I turned into Baker Street, my reverie was interrupted by a call.

‘Doctor! Doctor Watson, sir!’ I slowed my pace as a young woman crossed the road to stand in front of me. It took me a moment to recognise Agatha Robson. With a guilty start I realised I had been so preoccupied with Holmes that I had not communicated with her after our interview. 

‘Miss Robson,’ I began, meaning to apologise, but she interrupted me. 

‘It’s Mrs Anstruther now, sir,’ she said with obvious satisfaction. I stammered my congratulations as she continued, ‘And I’m so glad as I ran into you, I was hopin’ to find you at home.’ 

I began to speak again, but she carried on, ‘I wanted to thank you for findin’ John and askin’ him to write to me.’ I blinked.

‘I was so pleased to hear ‘e was ‘appy and well and’– she blushed prettily – ‘that he thought so kindly of me, and Harry, too, for all ‘arry mistrusted ‘im. I wanted to thank you, and Mr Holmes, for sendin’ on his letter, and for sendin’ on the lovely necklace. I ‘ope you don’t think less of us, but we did sell it, as we wanted a proper weddin’ like, an’ we ‘ad enough for money towards our own little place, too, as we never thought we would –‘ she broke off. Her eyes were shining, and I smiled at her obvious joy. 

‘I’m delighted for you.’ I said sincerely. 

‘Would you thank Mr Holmes for me? I ‘ope as how he didn’t go to any trouble for me, as ‘e was so kind not to take no fee, and to find John- ‘

‘Of course,’ I assured her. I would thank Holmes for both of us. 

‘He’s well, sir, Mr Holmes?’ She was watching me, suddenly serious faced. ‘And ‘appy, like?’

I said, ‘He is well. And I do believe he is happy, yes.’ On impulse I added, ‘We both are.’ 

She beamed at me then, and to my complete surprise, slipped forward and planted a light kiss on my cheek, before turning and walking quickly away. 

Holmes hadn’t forgotten her. Had even sent her a wedding present from his alias. I felt warmth bloom in my chest at the thought. I determined to thank him quite thoroughly when I returned to Baker Street. I quickened my pace, eager to be home. I wondered if – I pulled my pocket watch out and checked the time. No, two forty-five in the afternoon was far too early to retire. ‘Retiring early’ had become our code, and we had recently become most conscientious about sufficient sleep, but there was early and there was ridiculous. But perhaps, if we were to ask not to be disturbed, and locked the door.... I dismissed the notion as too unsafe. Holmes would never agree, and there was no need for us to take unnecessary risks. 

These thoughts had distracted me, or I would have noticed Lestrade before he hailed me on the doorstep. 

‘Good afternoon, Doctor.’ 

The momentary horror seized me that he could read my thoughts, but I felt my recovery was impressively fast. ‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,’ I answered with a smile. ‘Are you here to see to Mr Holmes?’

‘Indeed,’ he returned a brief smile. ‘The criminals of London give me no rest.’ 

We entered Baker Street together to be greeted in the hallway by a stern-faced Mrs Hudson. She addressed Lestrade firmly. ‘Mr Holmes has given strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed this afternoon.’ Her voice assumed the tone of one quoting, ‘He is undertaking some delicate and time sensitive chemical reactions.’ My spirits sank. Still, I had not had a chance to read today’s paper, so at least I would be entertained whilst I was overlooked all afternoon. 

Lestrade bridled. ‘I would hardly be likely to disturb Mr Holmes for a matter of little import.’

Mrs Hudson drew herself up and said with icy distain, ‘That is a matter of opinion and I have my instructions.’

‘My good lady, there has been a murder!’ Lestrade spluttered. I placed a restraining hand on his arm. 

‘Why don’t I speak to Mr Holmes?’ I said in as placatory a manner as I could. ‘I’m going up anyway and he can hardly object to me.’ 

I left them avoiding each other’s gaze in chilly silence. The door to our sitting room was closed, and I entered carefully. ‘Holmes?’

He was almost obscured as he sat bent over his microscope behind the dining room table, which was covered with various items of chemical apparatus. I sighed inwardly. This did indeed have the look of an afternoon’s endeavour. At the sound of my voice, he looked up, and a smile of genuine delight and warmth spread across his face. I felt myself smile back and the day was suspended as we grinned at each other like idiots. The shuffling of feet from the hallway recalled me to myself, and I said,’ Holmes, Lestrade is downstairs.’

His smile disappeared, to be replaced with a look of irritation. ‘I asked not to be disturbed. What does he want?’

‘There’s been a murder, apparently.’

He grimaced. ‘Hasn’t there always? And one beyond the ken of Scotland Yard, no doubt.’ He sighed with a put upon air. ‘Alright, send him up. Tell him to make it quick.’ 

I leaned over the banister and called to Lestrade who bounded up the stairs, but not after a triumphant glance at our landlady, who looked like she was trying to commit her own murder with the force of her glare. 

I moved across to my desk, retrieving the paper from the couch as I went, and took out my notepad, lest the affair be of interest. Lestrade entered, and at the look on Holmes’ face, launched into the details of the case without preamble. After ten minutes Holmes raised his hand and Lestrade stammered to a halt. Without a word, Holmes crossed the room, swept up the paper from my desk and thrust it at the confused Detective Inspector. 

I watched my newspaper disappear across the room and resigned myself to an afternoon of paperwork. 

‘On page four,’ Holmes was saying to Lestrade, ‘you will find the details of some financial irregularity that has recently been uncovered at a London bank. I would begin your investigation there.’ 

‘Wh-,’ began Lestrade. 

‘Investigate the man’s business partner, Detective Inspector,’ said Holmes in his most imperious voice. He moved to the sitting room door, holding it open. ‘If you have any further questions I will be at your disposal tomorrow, but in the meantime,’ he gestured pointedly to the stairs, ‘I have my experiments.’

Muttering his thanks in a noticeably ungrateful tone, Lestrade took the hint. We heard his footsteps on the stairs and the front door close. Holmes shouted down, ‘No more disturbances, Mrs Hudson!’ Our landlady’s indignant reply was lost in the slamming and locking of the sitting room door. 

Holmes crossed to his room, and I turned my gaze to my desk, pulling out some files of old case notes, determined to make constructive use of my time. I heard Holmes clear his throat as I opened the first file. There wasn’t enough to make a complete story in any of these cases, but perhaps a series of vignettes....

Holmes’ voice came from behind me. ‘Watson.’

I turned. He was standing at the door to his room. He had removed his jacket, collar, and cravat, and his top shirt buttons were undone. He looked at me expectantly and said, ‘Experiments, Watson.’

I stared for a moment, uncomprehending, then practically vaulted the settee to reach him. 

He said with barely suppressed amusement, ‘Unless of course you have something better to do.’ He eyed my desk. ‘Actually, you could do with catching up on your filing-‘ I put my hand over his mouth. His eyes glittered at me and I felt his breath on my palm. 

‘Be quiet, Sherlock.’ I said, teasingly. 

He looked at me with mock affront. ‘I have an extremely active mind.’ He pressed his lips to my palm, which tickled, and I drew my hand back with a huff of laughter. ‘And I’ve been busy all afternoon. If you want quiet, you will have to find a way to distract me.’

‘I think you’ll find,’ I said, as he drew me back into his room, ‘That I have my methods.’

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my last fic The Doctor’s Doctor, but it started life as a separate story, inspired by two scenes in Granada’s adaptation of The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. ITV called the episode The Master Blackmailer, and it includes a truly hissable and creepy turn by Robert Hardy as Milverton. You can totally understand why Holmes will go to any lengths to beat this man. He makes Moriarty look cuddly, which goes some way to explaining why Holmes lets his relationship with Aggie get as far as it does. The moments Aggie describes here that upset Watson are taken from those scenes. Although they aren't canon, they are Jeremy Paul taking some lovely artistic licence, I wanted to write about them because Jeremy Brett's performance is just heartbreaking. 
> 
> I’ve pretty much ignored the non-canon compliant bits of the rest of the episode (especially the utterly devastated look on Aggie’s face when Holmes calls on Milverton as himself and she recognises him) because I love this particular version of Aggie (Sophie Thompson is so charming in this role) and want only nice things to happen to her! 
> 
> Basically, this story exists entirely because I couldn’t get the idea of Aggie talking to Watson about Holmes out of my head. The original was meant to be more light hearted, but got entirely sideswiped by proximity to the first fic. There’s a more Aggie- centric version of this story to be written, but this isn’t it, sorry! 
> 
> I’ve also (possibly) taken some liberties with timelines. Canon Watson is deliberately vague about the date of the Milverton case, but his residence at Baker Street puts it before his marriage or after the hiatus. I’ve chosen after here, for obvious reasons.
> 
> Lastly, massive thanks and huge hugs to everyone who has taken the time to comment and / or leave kudos on my fics. You guys are amazing, and so lovely and encouraging to a newbie writer. I really appreciate it xxx


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